In a good way, I suppose.
Of course, my instinct here is to catch my humble journal up on all the happenings since last December, but find myself shaking my head back and fro at the notion.
It has been a busy New Year.
So, I will just begin again as if no time has passed, and perhaps one day retroactively fill the gap.
It's like DC comics. Heh.
Anyway, today has been an especially swerving day, and I felt like making note of it.
It began at 7 AM, when I awoke and did some last minute studying.
You see, this semester (my penultimate), I have class at 8 AM every day of the work-week. This is because I desperately waned to have my favorite Moraine professor, Dr. Wazwaz, presiding over two of my required Literature classes, and apparently, she is a morning person.
Anyone who knows me know I most certainly not. A morning person that is.
But alas I gave it a shot, and though it really does suck to wake up, go to school, then work, then come home and do homework, it will be worth it at semester's end.
Or at least that's what I tell myself to get through the day-to-day.
Since Kate went back to school things have been all teeter-tottery, and I've felt a little off balance until this week. I've had a lot of good times, from hanging with Michael and Katie to writing goofy stories with Matt Curtis, to depressing hours in which I sat and did nothing for hours on end, alone in my icy box of a pseudo-apartment. There's been in between too. I got food with Annie, and felt groggy the whole time, and got trapped at work and then trapped in a snowstorm. I've missed class due to weather and sleep, equally. It's just been a wacky time.
But I feel good again. Mostly.
This morning was my first Feminist Literature exam, and though i thought I was vastly unprepared for it, I ended up walking out damn confident that I had just kicked that test's ass.
However, I ended up ranting about the very same topic that I came Here to rant about.
Beware- I am about to complain in length about literature.
What the fuck is with so many feminist works of literature ending in suicide? I mean, I don't want to spoil anything about any of these stories, but seriously, a significant number of stories end up with the female protagonist ending her life in symbolic ways.
Several of these suicides were to avoid/caused by the constraints of having children/a husband, etc.
I don't know if i am missing some sort of divine message behind these suicides, but I have to say its driving me crazy.
I hate suicide. I hate hearing about, reading about it, and I have not and don't think I'll ever write of it. It drives me crazy to think of people believing that life is so bad that they'd rather not exist.
Not to say that like if you're in some insane Japanese prison being tortured for fifty years that it wouldn't be some sort of relief (supposedly; I cant even feel right about this kind...), but thats definitely not the case with these stories.
These women reject the families they have, and in one famous story, declares her "independence" from her old life. Her husband is very loving and good to her, and she has two good sons, but falls for another guy and decides this life she is in just isn't right. So she fucks around and tries to be free, only before her lover says he cant be with her, so she swims out to sea and drowns herself. Nice, right?
I don't know. I just don't see how being dead is a step up from a family Life, or even Life in general. In another story, the narrator just decides she's made the wrong choice in entering her familial life, and blows her brans out.
What feminist cause is this helping? Why are these stories so fucking lauded? Its driving me mad.
On the contrary, I have read a fair share of feminist stories that seems to be in response to this (astoundingly popular) line of thinking, that is Death over a Life they're not happy or "free" in, and have their protagonists actually do something about their unhappy position. These stories I really enjoy, especially as refreshing counterpoints.
I mean, fucking Woolf killed herself. She's the backbone of the whole class. A Room of One's Own, specifically. But like, Miss "We Need to Set an Example for the Women Writers of the Future and Tell Them To stand Up and Write and Be Strong" Woolf put rocks into her pockets and walked into a lake. What the Hell? She betrayed her own fucking theory book.
I'm not even going to get into Sylvia "My Kids Are Sleeping in the Next Room" Plath. I'll read more by/aabout her before I cast too heavy an opinion.
I'm sorry for ranting, I just got hit by all this at once, while studying for my American Lit II test, and it really got to me. I feel a little insensitive, I'll admit, but man does this get under my skin. I'm sure there's more to say here, but I'm tired of going on about it, even in text. rr.
So yeah. In other news.
I have hit a second as far as writing goes.
See, I was worried that after the creative rush I had from late summer through December, (which brought about a good half dozen true short stories, and several really fun pieces that are more like two-six page excerpts and exercises) tapped out, I would be out of ideas.
This turned out to be relatively true, as i didn't finish anything I started in January, and only had two real ideas to speak of.
I spent this time reading, and got through about three books. (Two of them by Neil! Woo Neil!)
However, with Spring fast approaching, which heralds several writing competitions and deadlines, including Moraine's, and another collection of Gaiman short fiction, I have been hit with a whole new wave of story and haven't been so fucking excited in months. I have five solid ideas, and three others awaiting completion.
For posterity and in a teaser-like fashion, I will list the (tentative) names of these stories.
The Jazz Lounge of Albany
A Boy Lost
Bryan's Extra-Ordinary War Under Lou's Floors
Signed Mary Eidel, On Her Birthday
The Human Storms
With Man Absent/Thin Beast Man
Victims and Prey
So yeah. I am really freaking psyched.
I want to be done with the lot by spring break. Then I'll feel like I have nearly enough to jump headfirst into the world of becoming a professional writer. I'll have a good 16 or so solid stories under my belt, plus whatever pops up between now and then, and will submit my ass off. From there on it's really just a matter of getting my name out there.
I also need to find as many readers as possible. So if anyone is interested in giving some time and criticism...
Tonight Kate and I talked being successful in our creative fields, both of which are notoriously flighty and impossible. So I feel good that we're both in positions where we're getting ourselves ready for the future. Getting better. Working at it and shtuff. I know it ain't going to be easy.
I just hope it's fun. Cause so far, this is one of the best experiences of my Life.
Being here-now, writing and just going for it, like.
So yeah. Its about four AM and I have to be up at 7 for school.
I really don't know why I do this to myself.
It's not on purpose.
Be seeing you.